Cain
Cain Rumkoswki (Also known as; Chaim Rumkoswki, Chain Rumkoswki, Kane, Bane) is the last Chapter Master of the Brotherhood of Man and is now Pirate Lord and Daemon Prince of the Brethren of Spite. Once the Captain of the Brotherhood of Man's 2nd company, Cain led a coup against Chapter command and caused a three year civil war that devastated the Brotherhood. Once the dust had settled, Cain would remake the remains of the broken Chapter into the piratical raiders known as the Brethren of Spite. Veteran and instigator of thousands of swashbuckling adventures, Cain continues to lead his men to new plunder and loot. Rise Prologue "KILL MUTIE SCUM" is scrawled on a hab-block wall in red lettering. The road is littered with overturned or burnt out Rhinos and Predator tanks, illuminating the urban ruins and the shapes of my loyal Space Marines. We stalk through the tangled mess of metal and fallen power armour shapes, my Power Sword drawn in this faux dualists stance as I eye the collapsed hab-blocks and ruined tanks. Flanking me are a pair of my droogs, a pair of Terminators brandishing their combi-bolters with a predatory gaze in their helmet eye lenses. Behind them a mass of Space Marines brandishing a mix of whatever they can find. Humans trailed behind them, bringing up Heavy Bolters and Mortars and Assault guns. Then the right flank of our human support explodes in a red shower of gore, something that causes me to dive behind cover as the humans scatter towards the hab-blocks for cover. The rest of my men take up firing positions as I search for the Loyalists, the sound of exploding auxiliaries ringing out as a Loyalist Predator pulled out of the opposing hab-blocks. Its Heavy Bolter sponsors swivel into position and start riddling anything in range with high explosive shells, and from a safe distance I watch as four of five of my Space Marines are blown apart in chunks of cerimite and gore. Loyalists, their bone coloured power armour coated in a thick layer of dust and grime followed it out of the hab-block. But a Las Cannon strikes the Predators hull, causing it to rumble forward clumsily before halting abruptly, another las beam carving through its right track. As its turrets swivelled into position to return fire, I leapt out of cover and tossed whatever explosives I had handy towards it and the loyalists, my Terminator guard and the other Space Marines pulling out of cover and battering the Predator. The Astartes following it pulled back behind its bulk, only for the Predator to explode as a lance of light pierced its hull and struck its engine. As the loyalists try to pull back we charge, roving through cover, trying to keep out of range as the enemy takes awkward potshots, now caught between us the rallying humans who are too incompetent to keep in the safe cover of the ruined hab-blocks. As I close the gap between myself and the Predator, one of the loyalists, his right leg ruined from a mix of red hot shrapnel and his body half coated in the fuel from the Predator, staggers out to fight me. I pay him no attention, his head flying off as I swipe out with my Power Sword before I kick his body back and draw my Plasma Pistol and start firing furiously in the general direction of the enemy. I see a Space Marine lose half of his torso from one of the shots before his head disappears, his body slumping to the floor as another crawls out of cover to face me. I don't wait a second more and blow his head off as well, a shower of plasma tinged gore spraying a grey rock face. With their ambush turning into a rout, the Space Marines who are firing on us start to pull back into the hab-block, but already the humans (most of who are by now decorating the floor in various piles of limbs and organs) are firing off mortars and high explosives at point blank range into the structure. It starts to collapse right on top of the loyalists, some of whom rush out straight into our gunfire which is a riot. The first Space Marines are thrown around by rapid firing Heavy Bolter firing from the militia men and cultists, with any of the Loyalists making it through set upon by myself and a group of chain sword wielding Assault Marines. I rush into the first Loyalist and swipe through his soft stomach armour, spraying blood across me as I plunge my Plasma Pistol into the face of another and blow his head off, leaving smoking residue as I keep firing wildly, probably hitting my own men a few times as I crashed into another and started beating him to death; the butt of my pistol smashing into his face plate with enough force to shatter it before I stamped onto his head in a crazed frenzy. Dragging the residue off my boot, I kick another loyalist over before doing the same to his crippled form. Celebration The bridge is crowded, well lit and filled with the murmur of a dying house warming party, the assembled astartes standing around with their weapons drawn like a horde of barbarians from some far off land. All the Imperial iconography was gone, and we have girls. Dancers. They look - well, attractive. They aren't hard bodies but. Someone, I don't know who, grabs my right arm. Calming myself after the initial burst of strange terror, I look around and find Orion Strasse glaring at me through his helmet. Strasse is a limber figure, well, for a Space Marine. A servo arm hangs over one shoulder and most of his power armour is taken up by cybernetics, his neck made up of numerous pistons and small, very delicate pieces of moving metal. His head - his helmet (though the two are indistinguishable) mounts a large cybernetic eye that I can see zoom in on me as he goes to speak, "Chapter Master Cain, the men expect a speech." I try to hide my revulsion at the thought of public speaking but I quickly sense the eyes of the room are on me and Strasse deliberately spoke up with the intent of putting me on the spot. I repress a growl. The sound of the men chanting my name overcomes the sound of Strasse's humming servos and the click of his mechanical innards, which I consider tearing out for a brief moment before nodding, stepping away from the Tech Marine and marching up to the second floor of the bridge which can act like a makeshift podium. I realise, as I walk with my sword drawn like some sort of ancient warlord, my cape trailing behind me, that I'm going to be standing between two dancing girls. The music is getting louder. I consider killing both girls, the act of brutality not too distracting but quick enough but I start to panic. But then it happens. I start speaking, and the anxiety dies away in a moment as the words spill out in perfect order and rhythm. I say something about the "Imperium's rotting corpse" and "feeble" something or I can't remember but it goes on for something like 15 minutes, accounting for intervals between cheers. Thankfully the girls stopped dancing and the men did not fire their weapons in the air, maybe they know doing that in the bridge is a bad idea. I see Strasse is nodding, imagining, imprinting, a look of defeat on his face. Or what would constitute his face. Why does he need a head? It's just another target. Maybe it's aesthetically pleasing, but Strasse has no sense of aesthetics so it bewilders me why he would do such a thing. But then someone comes up to me, and it's not one of my men but one of the dancer girls. She's a hardbody, dressed in some bizarre slim fitting dress that shows off almost everything. She's blonde so that's good. I think about the word hardbody for a good minute and how I didn't even know what it meant till like a month ago in that club or whatever. She speaks, or something. Her mouth is moving, she's making gestures, making eye contact. I nod and say "Okay" before she takes one of my thumbs, which amuses me to no end and I have to hold in my laughter as she walks us off the bridge. Name Brotherhood of Man is no longer fitting, I think, the girl mewling on my bed. I'm fully armoured again and sitting at the edge of the room, half asleep in the corner while she rolls around, out of her mind on whatever we snorted or something. I'm thinking names. Brotherhood of Man well, it's just not very distinct. I can think of at least six or seven other Brotherhoods of Man or Humanity or something. We're not really a Brotherhood either, the whole 'brother' thing came off as creepy to me. That and I killed our last Chaplin with his own right arm (still clutching his weapon, I might add). So what do we name ourselves in this competitive market? I can't tell, I'm not sure. The anxiety reignites the drugs which were being filtered out of my system. I try to think of a them other than "piracy", something distinct or firm about our group. We love murder? Yeah. Brotherhood of Murder? No that's shit. Conclave of Slaughter? The Crimson Slaughter? I stand up, wander around, pacing the length of the room as I try to think of something. The girl keeps making noise, something akin to coughing and vomiting, something maybe in-between that. She rolls out of the bed laughing before returning to the mid way vomit sounds and I find myself fixated on her, not out of any attraction but more out of a strange fixation with just how strange her drug induced spasms are. I move closer. "So do you ... do you?" I stop, realising it's useless to ask her for suggestions. I pick her up with one arm, throw her back on the bed and return to pacing. I probably didn't break anything. I think back to why we turned traitor and I distantly remember something about being bitter. Is that a theme? Can we be "The Embittered Army"? No, we can't really be bitter forever. What's another word for bitter? I'd say we're spiteful. We were spiteful. But spite sounds good. Brethren of Spite. Yeah it's keeping the brother shit, but I think it fits. Actually, it works. "Brethren of Spite," I announce, looking over to the girl who seems to be waking up, "How does that sound?" She blinks, rubs her eyes, and says something akin to "Pretty good." Ego It's our third time doing this. I think we're doing pretty good. We're needing to up our game but really, it's just a game of getting more than you expend in the process. I'm sure we can do that. The dread claw, or death claw, or whatever these things are called, is not sleek or physically appeasing in any sense. It's large, dull, jagged object that has four pincers that jut out of it's cylinder hull. It basically launches out of our ship, embeds itself in their ship and lets us in. It also has a chance of murdering us in the process, probably the reason Strasse advocated it's use. As we hurtle through space I start to think of ways to placate Strasse and his pettiness. A bigger lab? A bigger title? Some sort of sex slave because he's always whining about how lonely he is. Then I realise he'd just end up killing it and complain like a child when their pet dies. Also I doubt he'd feed it and he'd just try to put it back together after cutting it up or something. So as our vessel embeds itself in the enemy vessel, pulling open the hull for us to pour in, the men become restless and wild. I draw my power sword and shout over them something about how we will take no prisoners and be known as the most terrible pirates around, or something like that. We're competing with like two hundred other groups in this area of space alone, but the Space Marine factor puts us ahead tremendously. We charge inside of the Imperial vessel, firing wildly at anything in sight. The defenders are well armed, actually they are very well armed. Clad in sleek, white carapace armour that can take a bolter shot or two before it's usefulness is expended, they take a few of my men down in the first few minutes as we exchange fire. Their weapons project blue - blue las bolts. It's weird. It's new to me. How have I not seen this before? My thoughts drift back to Strasse and how petty he is, and how it's a problem and how I'm getting complaints. Complaints. One of my Space Marines, armed with a couple of guardsman issue melta guns starts firing all over the place, melting (pardon the pun) through the ranks of the Imperial naval soldiers and through sections of the hull. I'm worried for a few moments that could be dangerous, but I lose interest as the Imperials pull back from this section of the ship. I manage to kill a few more with pot shots and a few seconds later a second Dreadclaw bursts through the hull. A dozen or so human grenadiers flood into the room, securing the perimeter alongside my beige (it's cream, but people don't like me calling it that so now it's beige) coloured Astartes. But yeah, back to Strasse. He's a bit of a pain. I mean, he's done some nice work, like the acid throwers (which, while simple, is effective), the reinforced power armour and the early super soldier projects. One of them wanders past. Jinx. It's this hulking man, a frame of metal around his body with thick scrap armour and pipe work all over. He makes some grunts, looks in my direction, then wanders off. But for all that stuff, Strasse is still a pain. It's the ego really. I'm find with egotism, but only if it's refined. If it's well refined. Strasse's isn't. I've tried to help him, but he's always been like this. I remember before this, before we were like this, there was that incident with the stapler. That frakking stapler. We've moved into another room and we're already pinned by an automatic las turret of some form, dozens of blue tinted laser bolts striking our position from behind a thick barricade of metal and plastasteel. There's barricades all over the place and it's well fortified, but I find myself screaming commands over the sound of gunfire and pointing my power sword towards them (the enemy, that is). I've already received a message we've taken the engine room and we're about to flank these bastards, but I keep on shouting anyways. Maybe I should try shouting. Would Strasse react better to that? Chaos Covenant A few weeks ago our rump state/empire collapsed. I'm blaming the large Imperial fleet that pushed us out, or the lack of slaves or resources available to us that might have allowed us to keep a fortified presence. But really, isn't the mobile fleet better? We can keep moving around, divide our forces and maintain a level of independence, opposed to total reliance to one location. Maybe we'll need a larger flag ship but still, we've got the resources, for now. Oh and Strasse and his new friends he happened to find in some asteroid field after I tried jettisoning him out of an airlock managed to find something. Apparently it could be of use. I'm thinking about mercenary work while I watch Strasse and a collection of what might have been or are Tech Priests and other Hereteks showing off a large scan of a derelict ship. It's massive, an incredible vessel apparently - something like 6000 metres long. He calls it an 'Ark Mechanicus', apparently something to do with the Mechancius, and apparently very valuable. I've also noticed Strasse has this habit of speaking to me slowly, repeating my name over and over, using short words and simple phrases, like I'm an idiot or something. I'd chastise him with a threat, but honestly, it's not worth the time. Anyways, Strasse somehow manages to keep speaking about the ship. I know everything I need to, I'm saying okay and nodding at the right points and places, but he doesn't seem to realise I'm accepting the plan to repair it and salvage it. I felt some interest at the mention of ancient tech vaults, we can sell that sort of stuff or equip ourselves with it. I mean, the stuff inside there will be something. Something interesting. I feel a strange stirring and an interest, a genuine interest in something Strasse has said. It's a rare, strange euphoria that washes over me in a wonderful moment. I glare at the holographic projection of the ship. "So when can we um...go inside," I say, interrupting Strasse. There's an awkward silence, Strasse trying to give me a foul glare with his semi-featureless face as the other traitor Mechanicus look to him for answers. It was a simple enough question wasn't it? "Well," he starts to stammer and panic. I don't know why. No wait, I do. It's because Strasse is an idiot, "as soon as you wish." "Okay then, so organise it." I command, raising my voice, deciding to assert myself a bit more, but I loose any interesting in continuing or in fact, beginning to berate Strasse. He shrinks back over to the projector with the cabal of tech users and begins to speak with them in strange digital whispers. I decide I'll need protection in case they try anything so I decide to go and collect a dozen or so Terminator armour users with plasma and melta weapons. I can see Strasse trying to ambush us with something mechanical. Maybe it will be fun, maybe it won't. I need a drink. I find myself and the Terminators in a hanger bay of the Strike Cruiser, forcing a bottle of some sort against my face plate, hoping enough alcohol makes it through to produce some sort of buzz before we board the shuttle. I eye Strasse carefully, the Tech marine totally unaware, but I start to wonder why I'm concerned with Strasse. After a few more moments I realise I'm not, and my focus drifts back to the shuttle. Shift to the Covenant and we've started to edge inside of it, Strasse inspecting the massive hallways, large and long enough to fit columns of tanks or armoured transports. It's dusty, rotting, and since there's no lighting my helmet has to process everything. I remember to keep an eye on Strasse, who is the only one to speak at all during this time - giving running commentary on the state of the ship. Occasionally piles of bones and cabling appear, some covered by greying, frayed scarlet robes. Occasionally on the edge of my vision something scuttles past, something lithe and mechanical. As we roam deeper inside the mess, the scuttling gets worse. Then it's joined by this mechanical, radio like static that starts up on the vox every so often. "It's nothing," Strasse says, wearily, despite no one asking him. I'm far too focussed on something painted onto one of the large walls. No one else seems to be interested but it is fascinating. It's a large icon, eight clear lines spreading from a central point made up of four symbols. They are a bit too warm out for me to read or see, but still it's mesmerising. "Lord Cain!" someone shouts over the vox, the sound of mechanical, wheezing movement all around us. Appearance Before his ascension to Daemonhood, Cain was a tall figure. Standing at an impressive 12ft, the Chaos Lord was said to have had sharp, well defined features before his head and helmet bonded. Cain was further disfigured by the Eldar Banshee, Drow Thel, who proceeded to do the same a second time as a Champion of Khorne. Cain possessed a well-built figure, with his considerable frame bolstered by his reinforced Artificer Armour. Further mutation caused his Power Armour to become a thick exoskeleton.Cain now stands at almost 15 foot tall. His armour and flesh combined into a Daemonic visage of molten blood and cerimite skin, Cain appearing a fiery demigod among his host of Chaos Space Marines. Vents and gouges within Cain's body make him like a walking furnace, the air around him torrid. Personality and traits Cain is an extremely apathetic individual. Dulled to battle and struggling to feel concern for anything bar his own continued existence, Cain attempts to find some level of connection in acts of brutal sadism and sexual deviance. Cain does not see meaning in anything, and does not consider anything to be intrinsic or worthwhile other than his own amusement, testament to Cain's blunted sense of empathy. Even actions of extreme violence and deviance fail to sate Cain's increasingly bored state, with the Chaos Lord, having tried and failed to find a resolution to his boredom having sunk into total nihilism. Powers and Abilities Cain's main asset is his durability, a result of his half Daemon state and Astartes origins make Cain an incredible hard man to kill. Getting close to Cain is a challenge in it's right, his body flaring with torrid warp energy and excess radiation that he struggles to keep contained, a result of Cain's choice to remain on the material plane. This is furthered by Cain's strength, the half Daemon capable of crushing Space Marines in his grip with a chilling ease. Cain's strength however is honed into a useful skill opposed to rash brutality, something Cain finds exceptionally dull. Relations Drow Thel Drow Thel and Cain's relationship could be referred as strained at the very least. While now in his employ, Cain has not forgotten Drow's actions on the Maiden World in the early days of the Brethren of Spite, his ego wounded for all eternity by her actions. While Cain's initial vendetta on the Banshee has long since passed, with Drow enslaved to his service for the rest of his or her days, Cain still delights in tormenting the fallen Eldar for amusement or pleasure. Despite his almost inert hatred for Drow, she remains his second in command, and public executioner of any whom might seek to dethrone the Pirate lord. Brethren of Spite Cain's crew show an exceptional loyalty towards the Chaos Lord, despite his apathetic attitude towards them. Both are however, driven by the same needs and desires, while the Brethren of Spite attribute much of their success to Cain's leadership , and hold him in great reverence. Of course, this had not stopped certain individuals from attempting to take their place at the head of the Brethren, though so far Cain has proved quite adept at dealing with them. Quotes By About Category:Chaos Category:Imposter101 Category:Chaos Space Marines Category:Characters Category:Daemon Princes Category:War Effort